Welcome home, Father — welcome at last.
It feels like an age, like centuries past.
So much has shifted, so much has gone;
even the memory of you feels softly withdrawn.
Your sojourn left more tears than song,
more aching nights, silent and long.
Yet still I wonder, through all we have cried,
why sorrow endured, and hope never died.
Since last I looked upon your face,
hope has been my anchor, my grace.
Days have blossomed; days have fled,
yet I still wonder where you tread.
And Mother — how much can be said?
Her love has never fled.
Through all these years her tears remain,
whispering your name through quiet pain.
Even Billie Joe no longer barks;
his spirit dimmed, his hunger stark.
The hunter’s path grows faint, unclear,
yet echoes of your steps linger near.
To speak the truth, I must confess:
the coconut tree no longer rests.
We brought it down — for change has come,
our streets transformed, the past undone.
Yet still I hear you, gently asleep,
where mortal shadows quietly creep.
Though nature’s fumes have claimed your frame,
here, we still remember your name.
Eboechine 1 —
the Lion from Ogbagu Ogume,
who reigned in Utagba Ogbe, firm in his way,
calling his people home from Kwale to Ogume.
In this ode to a Southern son,
I sing the work your hands have done —
the tale of one who rose from sand
and carved his mark with steady hand.
From poverty’s root to Fortune’s embrace,
you fought, you earned, you claimed your place.
Like one lone tree that dared to stand
and birthed a forest across the land.
This song, dear noble, is for you.
If you rest, your sleep is true.
Know this beneath the sun —
your living branch is not undone.
Mar 5
Mar 5, 2026 at 10:51 AM UTC
Welcome home, Father — welcome at last.
It feels like an age, like centuries past.
So much has shifted, so much has gone;
even the memory of you feels softly withdrawn.
Your sojourn left more tears than song,
more aching nights, silent and long.
Yet still I wonder, through all we have cried,
why sorrow endured, and hope never died.
Since last I looked upon your face,
hope has been my anchor, my grace.
Days have blossomed; days have fled,
yet I still wonder where you tread.
And Mother — how much can be said?
Her love has never fled.
Through all these years her tears remain,
whispering your name through quiet pain.
Even Billie Joe no longer barks;
his spirit dimmed, his hunger stark.
The hunter’s path grows faint, unclear,
yet echoes of your steps linger near.
To speak the truth, I must confess:
the coconut tree no longer rests.
We brought it down — for change has come,
our streets transformed, the past undone.
Yet still I hear you, gently asleep,
where mortal shadows quietly creep.
Though nature’s fumes have claimed your frame,
here, we still remember your name.
Eboechine 1 —
the Lion from Ogbagu Ogume,
who reigned in Utagba Ogbe, firm in his way,
calling his people home from Kwale to Ogume.
In this ode to a Southern son,
I sing the work your hands have done —
the tale of one who rose from sand
and carved his mark with steady hand.
From poverty’s root to Fortune’s embrace,
you fought, you earned, you claimed your place.
Like one lone tree that dared to stand
and birthed a forest across the land.
This song, dear noble, is for you.
If you rest, your sleep is true.
Know this beneath the sun —
your living branch is not undone.
This poem is a tribute to my late father, whose life, strength, and perseverance shaped the path of our family. Though time has passed and the world has changed, his memory remains alive in the hearts of those he left behind. “Ode to a Southern Son” honours his journey from humble beginnings to the legacy he built, and the enduring love that still binds us together.
If you want, I can also give you an even
